ded to his love whatever honour his opinions may
forfeit. To atone for this departure from the vows of the
scholar and his eternal duties to this secular charity, we have
at least this gain, that here is a message which those to whom it
was addressed cannot choose but hear. Though they die, they must
listen. It is plain that whether by hope or by fear, or were it
only by delight in this panorama of brilliant images; all the
great classes of English society must read, even those whose
existence it proscribes. Poor Queen Victoria--poor Sir Robert
Peel--poor Primate and Bishops--poor Dukes and Lords! There is
no help in place or pride or in looking another way; a grain of
wit is more penetrating than the lightning of the night-storm,
which no curtains or shutters will keep out. Here is a book
which will be read, no thanks to anybody but itself. What pains,
what hopes, what vows, shall come of the reading! Here is a book
as full of treason as an egg is full of meat, and every lordship
and worship and high form and ceremony of English conservatism
tossed like a football into the air, and kept in the air, with
merciless kicks and rebounds, and yet not a word is punishable by
statute. The wit has eluded all official zeal; and yet these
dire jokes, these cunning thrusts, this darning sword of Cherubim
waved high in air, illuminates the whole horizon, and shows to
the eyes of the universe every wound it inflicts. Worst of all
for the party attacked, it bereaves them beforehand of all
sympathy, by anticipating the plea of poetic and humane
conservatism, and impressing the reader with the conviction that
the satirist himself has the truest love for everything old and
excellent in English land and institutions, and a genuine respect
for the basis of truth in those whom he exposes.

We are at some loss how to state what strikes us as the fault of
this remarkable book, for the variety and excellence of the
talent displayed in it is pretty sure to leave all special
criticism in the wrong. And we may easily fail in expressing the
general objection which we feel. It appears to us as a certain
disproportion in the picture, caused by the obtrusion of the
whims of the painter. In this work, as in his former labours,
Mr. Carlyle reminds us of a sick giant. His humours are
expressed with so much force of constitution that his
fancies are more attractive and more credible than the sanity of
duller men. But the habitual e